


A Dynamite Drug

by krissmnasi



Category: Mamma Mia! (Movies), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krissmnasi/pseuds/krissmnasi
Summary: The day before Harry meets Donna, he mulls over his loneliness as a charming, punk, guitar-playing twenty-something who's gone to Paris for his father's business trip. Nigel has done the same for his boss, and the two cross paths.
Relationships: Harry Bright/Nigel Kipling
Kudos: 7





	A Dynamite Drug

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Sam, for fashioniety. These two deserve the world but I owe it to you. These two are so incredibly soft, so here's a little bit of a meet-cute!!

It’s pretty, sometimes. If he doesn’t think about it much, that is, and Harry doesn’t think much in general. He doesn’t quite like his current situation; they make Paris so pretty in the movies but, now that he’s here, he’s achingly aware of how alone he is. Not that it should matter but his father is getting antsy about his current… well, relationship status, and he urges Harry to find someone or regret it for the rest of his life. It doesn’t help that his friends are on and on about bragging about the loss of their virginities, as if somehow that may suddenly convince him to choose someone quicker. He just hasn’t found ‘the one’ just yet and, at this point, he’s worried he never will. A hopeless romantic like him who looks through the other side of coffee shop windows at the men will never find a date. Father would never allow that.

Goodness knows how important it is to Father that he keeps his dignity, after all.

What a load of horse shit.

But he may manage. He’s young, and charming, and plays the guitar. He wears leather on a daily occasion, and he’s charming. Did he mention that? It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to show off as a fancy little trinket to please those with these expectations set. But here he is, looking outside a coffee shop window in Paris, hoping at some point to find whomever  _ she  _ is. If it is a  _ she _ , of course. Harry knows full well it isn’t, but drinks his mocha anyways. Life is spontaneous; the love of his life could walk through that door any second.

And, lo and behold, he may be right because, just then, the door’s bell chimes and another customer walks in. But this time is different; Harry has hung around this cafe for long enough at this point. Where most walk in with a general sense or idea, this one has steps of intent. Each one is a calculated move, and it doesn’t help that he’s dressed to the nines. A stunningly gorgeous earth-toned fleece coat with white accents, a soft rhubarb scarf gently wrapped around his neck, what seems to be a grey-- or, perhaps, brown?-- sweater underneath. He’s dressed in a way that suggests he cares about his message to the world, that he cares about his self expression.

Which Harry, following in the footsteps of his banker father, quite appreciates. Because he, too, is a man of self expression. That’s what it is to be punk, after all; it’s about being yourself. And though Harry knows he isn’t quite allowed to be, he likes the idea that maybe he could. So, as life is spontaneous and he is only a mere adventurer in the journey, Harry stands up, chugs the rest of his mocha, chokes a little bit on it, and goes to stand in line behind this beautiful stranger. Now, he has to make his move. He has to make this first impression just right, or lose this person in his life forever.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” At that, the person seems to notice the question is directed at them, and finishes stating the ( what Harry would assume to be a rather large ) order. When he turns, he’s faced by a young-looking twenty-something in a Led Zeppelin band shirt, leather jacket, and ripped jeans. They look torn by hand, which is why his eyebrows raise, but what’s most interesting are the choices of accessory. The leather choker around the neck, the studded shoulders, the studded leather bracelets.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” Now, Harry knows spontaneity can breed new situations but this is something else entirely. But he’s immediately mesmerised because, now, he can see the face clearer. Rounded glasses add to the charm of a man who so meticulously pays attention to what kind of message he is sending and Harry hopes- prays to God- that he’s reading the right one. The stranger takes out what seems to be a journal of sorts and a pen from under his arm, scribbling something down before checking the time and scribbling some more. “If you don’t mind, I’m on a schedule. I’m not here for long, and I’d like to make the most of my trip here.”

“And never see you again?” This isn’t anything new but Harry is a hopeless romantic. He’d much prefer to see someone this beautiful many more times, or at the least start talking to him. 

“I hope that won’t be the case, but it’s hard to bump into people twice when you’re someone like me,” he responds, putting the pen in his mouth before paying for the two drinks, bag of pastries, and suddenly figuring that he hasn’t got enough hands to hold it all. He manages to tuck the pen away in a pocket but, otherwise, hasn’t anywhere to put his journal, his drinks, or the paper bag. Life is so spontaneous, sometimes, and Harry is far more than grateful for it.

“You know, instead of perhaps wasting time trying to figure out the logistics of carrying things around, I could offer to help?” In an attempt to seem more attractive, Harry leans against the counter, and this beautiful stranger looks at him as if he is considering it. Again, he looks at Harry from his head and downwards, assessing the situation. He can make himself more late or… well, the initial idea hadn’t been that bad to begin with. So Nigel hands him the journal and he handles the rest. It doesn’t occur to him then that he could’ve asked for a cup holder but, given that he wants to get to know Harry a bit more, it’s not a thought that concerns him.

“Come on. I don’t want to be late. My boss would kill me if I were late.” Without sparing a moment, he makes his way out of the cafe, Harry following closely behind him in hopes to catch up. Harry would easily mistake him for  _ running _ , if it weren’t for the fact that he would greatly appreciate not tripping over and spilling the coffee on the pavement. Though, Harry has rather long legs, which makes it easy to catch up and  _ keep  _ up eventually. “I hope you don’t have any other commitments, but this is just too important for me. This job-- it’s everything to me.”

“Funny you say that. I hate my job. And my boss.” Harry doesn’t often speedwalk, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it all that much. “You see, my father is a banker, and therefore I have to work for him because, well, I wanted to be part of a band. I play guitar, you see, and I want to do that for the rest of my life instead of--”

“Isn’t that nepotism?”

“It’s Harry.”

“What?” For a moment, the stranger turns to look towards Harry before reminding himself that he is still on the clock and must make it there before whomever his boss may be.

“My name. Sorry, that wasn’t the right time. You’re right, it’s nepotism, very much so, but my father doesn’t quite care. He just wants his son to have a job, but playing music  _ is  _ my job.” He almost runs into a pole as he’s following, but there are no signs of slowing down anytime soon.

“I think I know what you feel. Sort of. I’m Kipling.”

“People don’t introduce themselves by their last names, you know,” Harry points out, because he can’t believe that this is his first name. A person like  _ this  _ isn’t named  _ Kipling _ .

“Most people don’t care to know my first. But if you insist: it’s Nigel.”

“Well, just to make things even, my last is Bright.”

“I sure bet it is,” and Nigel would shake hands with Harry if his own weren’t full. Niceties, and all that. 

“No, really! It is Bright! Harry Bright-- that’s the whole thing.”

And that’s how it began. A long winding conversation on names, and naming conventions, and their meanings. A conversation that, later, easily winds down into that of their choice of self expression. Fashion. Something that Nigel has used as an important aspect of his personality, to counter the many years where he had felt so out of place amongst his brothers and amongst his family. About Harry’s choice to ostentatiously decorate himself with studs and spikes and the likes in comparison to Nigel’s more softer, more… well, cozier appearance. He says it’s nothing, just something he quickly threw on that morning at the behest of his boss. And Harry insists that, somehow, it  _ does  _ look so awfully charming and, by God, has he fallen in love?

That can’t be. Because that’s wrong, right? He  _ must  _ find a woman, he’s sure of it.

“I never said thanks today, did I?” Paris is so beautiful when you don’t think about it. When your mind is wandering and you can’t care enough to pay attention to it. When you’re in a car with a beautiful boy and you know- you feel it- you love him. But you’d just met him, and it has to be wrong. There’s no way. “Thanks, Harry. For the- for this morning and for accompanying me around. You really had nothing to do today?”

“Not a thing. I like my schedule open, because then I can be a bit more spontaneous.” Nigel laughs.  _ Nigel laughs _ . The beautiful boy from the cafe today lets out something soft, rolls out a bit of cheerfulness from his lips, and Harry is entirely captivated by it. He watches the way Nigel’s lips curl back into a smile, the way his cheeks go rosy by the soft glow of the blinking lights of a store that’s about to close, the way he scrunches his nose to adjust his glasses. Nigel, in his entirety, in all his features, completely distracts Harry and the feeling is intoxicating.

He’ll never find another person like this, will he? He’ll never find someone he’s fallen so desperately in love with on the first day like this, laughing and joyful, even after he’d trailed behind him like a lost puppy throughout all his day’s errands during this short trip to Paris which, eventually, the both of them will leave and then they’ll never meet again. “I wish I could be as spontaneous as that. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow morning because I’m only here for the fashion event-- the one, you know, that we went to just then. But it was great. You know, my time with you.

You can call Harry cliche but this feels like the part of the movie where the love interest is convinced by the main character to stay. And Harry would beg for it, would plead with his entire soul, but he’s not  _ that  _ desperate, is he? And it’s not like it would do him any favours; Nigel probably doesn’t like him that way. Harry expects this to go the boring route; they go their separate ways, Harry sees that very plane in the sky ( he hopes it is, at least ) flying towards America, and sighs before he pops his head back in his hotel room to then take out the tray into the hallway and, well--

The rest, that’s easy. He thinks he’s found someone- a  _ girl _ \- but he’s lying to himself. And he knows it well because, the entire time, he’s thinking about the beautiful boy in the cafe. Harry can’t stop thinking of Nigel, even years later, when he’s in Bloomsbury and has settled on the fact that he- Harry Bright- will be alone for the rest of his life. That he’ll never find love like that again and, therefore, all the companionship he’ll ever have for the rest of his life is that of his two precious dogs.

Even now on a business trip to New York, grumbling to himself that there are too many streets and buildings. That it’s too hard to navigate, for a man like him, that likes a spontaneous life as much as he enjoys not getting lost every five minutes only to find out that he’s one street too far or that this almost identical building is the wrong building. He swears, he’ll never get back to his hotel at this rate. But, quite possibly, he doesn’t care. He’s taken refuge in this Starbucks for now, before he continues on his journey, but he finds something interesting: a beautiful boy, ordering drinks, certainly more than for himself.

Where has he read this book before?

“If memory serves me well, you said you’d never bump into me twice,” says Harry, standing behind Nigel.

Harry doesn’t need to see his face to know; his eyes widen behind those glasses and his shoulders relax, with the movement in his hands pausing momentarily from his wallet. The both of them smile, but Harry would say Nigel seemed to express that of a dog who'd just witnessed the return of his owner. One that has sorely missed the other’s presence, one that says  _ I’ve been thinking about you too _ .

“Sorry--  _ Harry _ ? What are you doing here-- I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, this  _ is  _ a Starbucks and I  _ do  _ quite like Mocha. I’m here for a little spontaneous adventure.”

“I didn’t think spontaneity called for being so well dressed,” Nigel points out, nodding towards the black tie and the suit. It greatly contrasts what Nigel had last seen him in, which he doesn’t mind too much because he loves to see a well dressed man, but it’s not much like the Harry he once knew whereas Nigel seemingly only has gotten better at the craft. But Harry knows- would bet his life- that Nigel would tell him he threw it on that morning not expecting anything much or even to be mocked. How absurd is that thought?

Nigel laughs again, in Harry’s hotel room. He laughs, with the night sky above and the lights of the many other buildings in the city switching on to indicate people in their offices or in their own hotel rooms. He laughs in a certain way, with one hand over his mouth and the other splayed across his chest. He laughs with his coat hanging on the back of the chair and his scarf draped over it, with Harry’s own laughter intermingled, with the whiskey they’ve had buzzing in the back of their minds before it simmers again and they are left sober with their comedy in the confines of this hotel room.

They are a number of floors above, high enough to not see the street below, high enough to comment on the starry-like nature of the lights, high enough not to hear the cars going past. They are alone here, together, in their company. And Harry makes a decision now, in his otherwise non-spontaneous life, that he will make a spontaneous decision, much like the one he made on Kalokairi, with Petros. But, this time, he believes he has a few more manners than he once did before. So he leans closer to Nigel, reaching a hand out to hold his face, tilts his own head to the side, and asks for permission. “May I?”

That makes Nigel giggle, and Harry swears that the spinning in his head is because of him.

“That doesn’t have to be a question,” is shortly followed by the kiss he had been hoping to initiate, and it’s nothing short of sweet and tender. It is nothing short of soft and gentle, of a reciprocated emotion. Having spent this day with Nigel, Harry fears that he will never have such an amazing day like this again. Everything else will be second best, everything else will only be second best. Because this, surely, is one of the best things in his life: a man like Nigel, who can talk to him for hours on end. A man like Nigel, who is helping him unbutton his shirt. A man like Nigel, who politely drapes it over his chair before coaxing Harry towards the bed.

It helps that they’re in a hotel room; isn’t that how most of these things happen? Isn’t this how things go if they want to be here for a good time, but certainly, surely, not a long time? But it’s more than that because, when they’re panting and sweating and holding each others warm bodies against one another, they look at each other with a certain kind of intent that begs them both to stay until morning, until breakfast, until lunch, until next week, and more. Until they get tired, which isn’t soon by any means, because their lively conversations and witty banter makes them feel like they’ve known each other for a lifetime. 

The clumsy boy laughs, and giggles, and sparkles in his eyes. The clumsy boy looks at Nigel, and suddenly there is a wave in his chest that feels as if he may never get a gorgeous view like this. He can go to all the trendy fashion shows his little heart may desire, he may follow Miranda to the ends of the earth in pursuit of fashion and innovation in such an expressive field, but  _ nothing  _ compares to the view he is getting next to Harry, seeing his flush face smile at him with such a gorgeous aura of love and care that Nigel would be happy to drop dead tomorrow. His life has peaked at this very moment; nothing much else matters this much because he’s so madly, desperately, in love.

“ _ Another  _ dad?” And it’s understandable, Sophie’s reaction, when Harry brings Nigel to Kalokairi for the hotel’s reopening and introduces his new boyfriend. They’re having drinks at the bar, Harry sipping on a cocktail and Nigel doing the same, neither of them aware of their abject synchronisation. “Well-- when did-- how long have you known each other?”

“Darling, it’s a little complicated. It feels like a lifetime, you know. Like, you meet a guy and,  _ grr _ , you just can’t remember when you last weren’t with him, or what life was like without him. You ever felt that before?” Nigel can get poetic sometimes, Harry thinks to himself, still sipping on his cocktail completely mystified.

“The day before I met your mother, I met the most beautiful boy in a coffee shop in Paris. And now I wonder why it took me so long to come out to myself.” Nigel raises his eyebrows at that, leaning in closer with a smug look on his face, a little tilt in his head at curiosity. Harry wasn’t all that secretive with his sexuality but that’s not what’s vexing Nigel and Sophie. 

“You didn’t already know it yourself? You were wearing studded leather jackets, sweetheart, I thought you already knew,” and they all laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 


End file.
